


A Stone I Died

by redacted_rills



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But if Friar Lawrence Can Do It Than So Can I, Jim Moriarty is a Little Shit, M/M, Molly Hooper is a Good Friend, Mycroft is a good brother, Not Really Character Death, Panic Attacks, This Poison is Not Logical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22304131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redacted_rills/pseuds/redacted_rills
Summary: Based off of a prompt at sherlockbbc_fic :Sherlock finds John at home on the couch - not speaking, not moving, not...breathing. He has no pulse and is literally dead to the world. Sherlock is devastated and refuses to believe it and refuses to move John anywhere. Lestrade and Mycroft are trying to persuade him, but nothing helps.***Warnings for character "death" + descriptions of dead bodies + some medical things that we do to dead bodies
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 60





	1. What Should I Fear?

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 2011 so this is some Post-Season-1 Good Content 4 u.  
> ___  
> Pretentious title is pretentious and from a Rumi poem.

Something was very wrong.

Sherlock stood frozen in the doorway to 221B and stared at the couch.  
This didn’t make sense. 

He replayed the last five minutes in his mind, recalling every detail his not inconsiderable observational skills had taken in, searching for exactly when things had turned from normal to terrifying. 

_He had finished texting Lestrade about the current case as he reached the front door. Unlocking it, he had slipped his mobile back into his pocket and unwrapped the scarf from around his neck. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be out, so he would have to bother John if he wanted any tea.  
He climbed the seventeen stairs slowly, wondering how quickly Lestrade could get back to him with the measurements he needed from the victim’s flat.  
He turned the doorknob.  
He opened the door._

There was nothing unusual. Nothing to set off warning bells or demand a second look.

Nothing to prepare him for the sight of his flatmate and lover lying on the couch with his head turned at an awkward angle, limbs sprawled and his skin so ashen it looked grey.

No. That couldn’t be right.

Sherlock blinked firmly and tried again. But John was still there, hadn’t moved an inch, not even a rise and fall of his chest.

Oh, something was very wrong indeed.

“John?” Sherlock tried to call out, but his vocal chords seemed as frozen as the rest of him and it came out as only a soft whisper. Clearing his throat gruffly, Sherlock took a hesitant step closer to the couch and tried again.

“Alright? John, are you alright? Wake up.”

There, better. His voice sounded much more controlled. He had to stay calm. He had to figure out how badly John was hurt. He had to wake John up.

“John! What happened?”

He was close enough to touch now. Sherlock stretched out to grasp the hand that was hanging so very still off the edge of the sofa cushion. He laced their fingers together, but the other man did not respond and his hand was cold. People’s hands shouldn’t be that cold. John’s hands never were. 

Sherlock hissed a breath in through his teeth and clutched at the hand, trying to warm it up, to make it right. In a rush, his brain - which had stayed frozen by the doorway when the rest of him had moved - came rushing back to him and began working overtime.

_\- John and him shaking hands that first time at Bart’s, noting the solid pressure and warmth; that hand reaching down to help him up after slipping on ice in the middle of a chase; soft, sure fingers tracing his cheek bone to check for bruising and giving him an affectionate chuck on the chin; hands searching for purchase over rumpled bed sheets; around the stem of a tea cup; typing one letter at a time; waving; punching; John’s hands as he -_

Sherlock pulled his own hand back into himself with a shudder, cradling it to his chest like it was wounded. He stayed retreated for a moment, eyes darting as he took in the facts that had sprawled themselves on the couch. 

Data. He needed more data.

Sherlock began to move frantically, kneeling next to the sofa and shaking the smaller man roughly. John’s head lolled to the side pathetically. Sherlock felt suddenly and vividly that he was going to be sick. He reached up and lifted the eyelids to reveal -

_\- dark blue eyes sparkling as they laugh; flashing as they contradict him; half-lidded and lust filled; blinking rapidly from across a pool deck; skimming the page; squinting at the evidence, searching for the clues Sherlock had just stated; showing every emotion, every tiny thing he feels, but not blank like now never blank this was wrong so wrong so -_

Sherlock felt his brain pulling in every direction: cataloging clues, recalling medical cases that had shown the same symptoms, spewing memories back at him. His skin felt like it was crawling and adrenaline poured white hot throughout his blood stream. He couldn’t focus on anything or think what to check first. He couldn't catch onto the threads of thought wrapping themselves in circles in his mind, Sherlock couldn't think, he was useless and John was just laying there being useless as well.

No! With a shake of his head, Sherlock forced his thoughts in order. There was no time for a short-circuit now. 

Pulse. Check the pulse.

He fumbled as he removed his gloves and forcefully pushed two fingers at John, checking the carotid artery at the neck - 

_\- exposed and gorgeous and about to wrapped in Sherlock’s own scarf; the adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows; as he laughs; bending further and further back to give Sherlock room as he licks, bites, claims -_

A growl of frustration vibrated in Sherlock’s chest as he realized he couldn’t find what he was looking for; no pulse pressed back against his two fingers. He leaned his head close to the mouth and nose to listen for breathing, holding very still over the lips - 

_\- kissing; laughing; “Oh God, Sherlock”; teeth bared; downturned; “..lives at stake, actual human lives..”; nipping at his skin; gasping; puffing; breathing; John breathing; the human body can only go five minutes without oxygen and how long had he been lying here while Sherlock was off doing something that was so unimportant he couldn’t even think of it now; how long did he have before brain damage; before -_

Sherlock slammed his fist onto John’s chest - _his still, still chest_ \- trying to make something happen. Make John do something.

No no no no no. It ran like a pointless refrain through Sherlock’s mind. No no no. 

He noticed his hands were shaking, clenching and unclenching in the fabric of John’s jumper. The walls were vibrating and he couldn’t block out the sound of the traffic outside. His own breathing was too loud and too cruel - only one set of ragged gasps filled the room. 

“No no no no no.” He was mumbling it now, over and over, shaking John, hitting John, turning his head this way and that. Cold all over. John’s body was so cold -

_\- chilled flesh under Sherlock’s fingers as he traces the bruises from the riding crop, smiling at the satisfactory results; some woman, dead 15 hours, with the perfect size toes for his experiment; rows in the morgue, rows and rows; John lying very still on a cold table as Molly stands over him with knives and tubes and chemicals; “What about this one, Sherlock? Think his jaw bone will do?”; John cut up and empty and dea -_

With a whimper, Sherlock curled down into the legs of the coffee table and away from the sofa that he was going to burn when this was all over. When John was better and everything was normal. Yes, John would smile and they would burn the sofa, cushions and all.

_"I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you.”_

Another whimper scraped his throat. A car horn sounded in the street. Outside was being loud and Sherlock was being loud but John was oh so quiet. It wasn’t fair.

Sherlock’s fists hit out against himself now, digging into his hair and tugging, punching against his knees. His gasps verged on sobs and his brain was simultaneously telling him instructions for CPR and reliving yesterday morning _when John had convinced him to stay in bed for an extra sinful hour_ and, oh, his cell phone was beeping but - **“are you ok, Annie? Annie, are you ok? Get help!”** \- _the taste of sleep still on John’s tongue and how could anything change that? How could this be happening just 24 hours later?_ \- the text message tone blared and three kids were yelling outside and Sherlock felt his whole world shrinking and blowing up all at once and John was just laying there doing NOTHING not even MOVING and he always helped someone in need and Sherlock NEEDED him and and and…

On its own, his cell phone seemed to have produced itself from out of his coat pocket. With practiced movements, a habit born from his drug addled days - _the ghosts of short circuits past_ \- his hands pressed the number for the only person who knew how to reboot his system.

It wasn’t until Mycroft answered on the second ring that Sherlock actually consciously realized he was making a call.

“Well, well, to what do I owe this pleasure, Sherlock?”

The sound of the familiar voice, smug as usual, helped bring Sherlock back from the edge. He curled his legs up into himself and took a few deep breaths, never taking his eyes off John’s unnaturally slack face. The silence must have been too long for Mycroft and Sherlock could feel the concern sharpen on the other end of the phone. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock! What’s happened?”

He tried to speak but his throat was too tight and only a choked whine came through. On the other end, Mycroft sighed. Sherlock hadn‘t been the only one to form habits during his drug addiction; this was certainly not the first phone call Mycroft had received from Sherlock where the younger man was unable to speak.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. Breathe. Deep breaths. When you’re able, tell me what you’ve taken.”

Sherlock swallowed twice and willed his voice to work. His tone was harsh. “Not me, you idiot. It’s John. He’s not…” _moving, breathing, ALIVE_ “…responding. To me. Or anything. There’s something wrong with John.”

Soft typing and muttered voice could be heard on the other end. No doubt the video feed for their living room was being accessed. Sherlock sat up a little straighter - Mycroft would be able to figure this out. As insufferable as the man could be, he had a knack for fixing all of the worst situations Sherlock found himself in.

“Tell me exactly what happened. Are there any signs of a struggle?”

Sherlock looked around the room and realized it was the first time he had scanned the full flat since he had arrived home. The sofa had occupied all of his attention and it felt strange to take his eyes off of it, even for the few seconds it took to make a cursory glance over the room. He couldn’t focus on the details, couldn’t remember if those papers had been on the floor when he left this morning or not. It didn’t matter. 

Sherlock’s eyes returned to John’s form. He didn’t want to look away again.

“No, it’s fine. I think. I don’t know.“

“You don’t know?” If Sherlock had announced he was done with detective work and going to faff off take up accounting, Mycroft couldn’t have sounded more surprised.

Sherlock growled with annoyance. There wasn’t time for this.

“Listen, I can’t get him to wake up. I need you to send an ambulance. Quickly. Have them bring all of their supplies with them, I don’t think he should leave the flat. John hates waking in hospital.”

“Is he breathing? Is there a pulse?”

Questions. More stupid, pointless questions.

“No, you utter moron. That’s why he needs a doctor. He needs doctors to make him breathe.”

“Sherlock…” 

The voice was gentle. Sherlock hated that voice. It reminded him of when he was six and Mycroft had explained to him that Gladstone wasn’t coming back from the vet. But this wasn’t that kind of situation at all, so why was that voice being used? 

He leaned over John again, gripping his jumper, desperate to prove that voice wrong.

“Look, if you’re not going to help, I’ll do it myself. I don’t even know why I called you. If you won’t send someone to help us, then I’ll just - “

“Sherlock. Please.” There is a firmness to the voice now, a soft command to stop the foolishness. But Sherlock couldn’t stop. He couldn’t admit what was happening.

“Sherlock, when you’ve taken away all other possibilities, the one that remains, no matter how difficult it may be, must be the truth.”

“You’ve positively ruined that quote.” Sherlock snarled into the phone.

“But the meaning remains the same,” Mycroft's voice was still soothing. Sherlock wanted to kick in his teeth. But it was too late, his brain had already latched on to the facts.

_No pulse. No breathing. No signs of brain activity. The onset of pallor mortis. The onset of algor mortis. The onset of rigor mortis. The body meets all requirements to be declared legally dead._

The body. The words sank through the layers of Sherlock’s mind and stopped everything. That was wrong. John wasn’t a body, he was John. Sherlock’s eyes squeezed shut as he laid his head on John‘s chest and buried his nose into the soft cable knit.

An image burned bright in front of his eye lids.

_The morgue. Bart’s. Molly smiles sweetly as she holds out the scalpel to Sherlock. “Don’t you want to make the first cut?” Her voice is all honey and sugar. Sherlock shakes his head jerkily because this isn’t some nameless, unimportant person lying on the metal table. It’s John. His John. And he is dead. He’s nothing. Just a body on a table, waiting to be cut open and embalmed. Molly makes the first long slow cut down the breast plate, peeling back the skin, cracking open the ribs -_

“No,” Sherlock gasped into the soft wool of John’s jumper. He knew intimately what happens to bodies in the morgue. But not to John. Sherlock wouldn’t let that happen to John. His hand was shaking as he brought the phone back to his ear.

“I’ve changed my mind, Mycroft.” Sherlock attempted to make his voice sound brisk. Normal. “We won’t be needing your assistance. It’s all…it’ll be fine, actually. Don’t come here. Don’t bother. Go eat something. Rig an election. Stage a military coup in Africa. We’re fine.”

He ended the call before his brother could object or throw any more facts in his face. For once in his life, Sherlock did not want facts. Sherlock only wanted John. He buried his head into the jumper and took a deep breath, trying to catalogue every last thing that made up John Watson.

Minutes ticked by. John grew colder.

A knock on the already open door startled Sherlock. There stood Lestrade, wide eyes taking in the sight before him.

“I didn’t mean to…the front door was unlocked so I let myself in. Sherlock, what’s going on? Is he…?”

Sherlock jumped to his feet and stalked toward the door.

“He’s fine. Everything’s fine. Get out.”

A quick shove had Lestrade stumbling back and out of the door frame. Sherlock made to slam the door in his face but the D.I. reached out an arm to stop it.

“Sherlock! Is John...is he...?”

Lestrade struggled to see over Sherlock’s shoulder and into the room. Sherlock stood straighter to block his view and shoved at the door, but Lestrade wouldn’t budge.

“Was there something you wanted?”

“Well, I have the measurements for the laundry hamper that you needed…Have you called an ambulance? He looks terrible. He needs a hospital, mate.”

“No. He doesn’t. I will get the information from you later. Now kindly let yourself out. This isn‘t a good time.”

Sherlock gave up on the struggle over the door and turned sharply to return to John’s side. He could hear Lestrade follow him in.

“He doesn’t need a doctor? Look at him! He’s barely breathing.”

Sherlock whirled around, standing his ground as the D.I. almost ran into him.

“You are incorrect,” He spits the words out but they are quiet like a whisper.

“Incorrect? About what? He looks -

“John isn’t barely breathing. John isn’t breathing at all." _dead dead dead dead_ "So you are incorrect. He doesn’t need a hospital. Please leave now.”

Lestrade must have finally gotten a good look at the doctor's body, because he stumbled away from the sofa and tripped backwards into a chair. John’s chair, Sherlock noted with annoyance.

“Christ,” Lestrade breathed. “Christ, John.”

The two men stared in silence at the still figure on the couch for a long while.

“What happened?” Lestrade’s voice was thick with emotion.

“I don’t know. I came home and found him like this. I don’t know why. I don‘t know how he…died.”

Finally saying it out loud seemed to drain the last reserves of strength from Sherlock and he slumped to the floor, curling against the coffee table again.

Lestrade broke the silence.

“We should… _I_ should call it in. Get some people over here to retrieve the…to retrieve John. Comb the room, see if we can’t figure it out.”

Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “No. You can’t.”

“Sherlock…”

It was the same voice Mycroft had used, that gentle "dealing-with-death" voice. It made Sherlock feel like a child. It made Sherlock’s teeth itch.

“No. Please.” Sherlock tore his eyes away from John to look at Lestrade properly. The man’s eyes were rimmed red and his face was paler then normal. He might understand. “I can’t let him…I don’t want him to leave….”

Before Lestrade could respond, footsteps were on the stairs. Mycroft's people had arrived.

“No, no, NO!” The refrain was back, Sherlock yelled it this time as he leapt up and tried to cover John with his own body, but it did no good.

They came in somberly but in they came. Medical professionals, who ushered Sherlock away from the sofa and then took his place hovering over John, touching him and poking at him. Mycroft came in next, all gravitas and condolences. Sherlock turned on him.

“No. Stop it. I told you we were fine. Just leave him."

Mycroft's stare was deep and unreadable but he made no move to stop what was happening behind them.

Desperately, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Please, one night. Lestrade, help me." When there was still no answer, Sherlock turned back to his brother and weakly reached out for his coat lapel. "Mycroft, please, don’t take him to the morgue. Please, please not for John. That place isn’t for John.”

Sherlock was babbling. He was reduced to begging in front of his brother and the person who might as well be his boss, he was humiliating himself in front of strangers he had never met, but it didn’t matter. The looks of pity on everyone’s faces. The shushing noises Mycroft was making as he gripped back firmly on his hand. None of it mattered.

One of the medical workers spoke.

“Looks like he’s been dead about two hours. No sign of trauma or external injury. Most likely a heart attack. We’ll get the gurney ready, if you all wouldn’t mind clearing a path.”

The world went fuzzy around the edges. Sherlock’s hearing faded into a faint ringing. He felt himself being led into a chair. Two hours. Where, where _exactly_ had Sherlock been two hours ago? What had been so important?

_Why had they ever gotten out of bed yesterday?_

People were talking to him. Lestrade. Mycroft. Mycroft’s horrid assistant that John would flirt with to make Sherlock jealous. Hands were touching him. He let them.

They blocked his view as John was covered with a sheet and carried out of the door. They didn’t let him say goodbye. 

Mycroft promised that an autopsy wouldn’t be performed tonight. No one would touch the body tonight.

Sherlock supposed that was good. That was what he had wanted. He tried to let a small sense of victory sweep in, but it faded away like everything else. His brain was moving impossibly slow, thoughts weren’t clicking into place like they usually did. 

Sherlock found he didn’t care. There was a comfort in the numbness. Everything was vague and far away and that was good. 

He even let Mycroft hug him. What did any of it matter?

***

Molly had been about to leave work when a new body was rolled in. She took one look at the name on the tag and knew she wasn’t going anywhere for the night.

It hadn’t happened often, thank the Lord, because she was young and most of the people she knew were still very much alive, but whenever someone she had known in her day to day life was wheeled into her morgue, Molly made sure they were comfortable. She would make herself some tea, settle in, and just sit with them. Just for that first night. It was probably against the rules or creepy or something along those lines, but Molly figured it‘s what she would want for herself, so she doesn’t mind extending the courtesy to friends and family.

At first she just sat and stared. (That was one of her favorite things about dead people, they didn’t think it rude to stare.) John Watson looked different in death. He face was usually so full of life - broadcasting his thoughts to the world. Now it was permanent and still. His tan, left over from the war, was unrecognizable under the sick pallor of death. Molly didn’t care for it one bit.

After a while, Molly decided that perhaps the doctor would prefer some entertainment. She had brought a book with her, a rather trashy romance novel, but she was willing to be a little embarrassed if it could help distract John from the fact that he was dead. Molly read aloud, starting over from the beginning so he wouldn’t miss anything.

She read for a half hour before her voice got tired and she needed more tea. Setting the book aside, Molly glanced back at John’s face. It pleased her to see that he looked more like himself. Perhaps she was just getting used to the dead version of John, but now, to her, he looked almost the same as he had a week ago when she had last seen him. His skin was more the right shade and the lines on his face that had been so sharp with rigor mortis were softening.

As the kettle boiled on the other end of the morgue, Molly pondered what she would look like dead. Many people found these thoughts morbid, but John probably wouldn’t. She could talk it over with him. And while she was at it, perhaps she could ask him a few questions that she had always wanted to know the answers to. Questions about what being in love with Sherlock had been like. Questions about how it felt to have Sherlock love you back. He wouldn’t answer, but her mum had always said that sometimes just getting the words off your chest helped. Besides, they were getting to a rather steamy section of the book and she thought it would be just too much to read that out loud.

The kettle clicked and the tea seeped. Molly turned back to resume her vigil but stopped in her tracks. It was a most curious thing. Molly spent a lot of time around dead bodies. John Watson no longer looked like a dead body

Plus, his head had turned to the side all on its own, so that was new.

Carefully setting the tea down on a table, Molly crossed cautiously to the doctor. Not only was his skin a healthy tan once again, his cheeks were positively flushed. She leaned closer to get a better look when suddenly the corpse gulped a huge lungful of air. His body arched off the table as the air was rushed in. It sounded like a drowning man finally reaching the surface.

John’s head rolled to the other side and back as he continued to gasp in and out.

Molly, for her part, screamed and ran to the other end of the room. John’s forehead scrunched slightly as his breathing slowed until it was no longer audible. But she could still see it from her crouched hiding place behind the desk. John Watson’s chest was rising and falling ever so slightly.

Right. A phone call was in order. Not taking her eyes off of the reincarnate Dr. Watson, Molly hit number one on her speed dial. Sherlock. 

But it wasn’t his gorgeous deep baritone that sounded when the call was connected.

“Ah, Ms. Hooper, I presume. I don’t believe we’ve talked. Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother.” 

Molly squeaked a little as John managed to roll his head once again. A light sheen of sweat seemed to be forming on his brow. She closed her eyes tight and willed him to _stop doing that_ for a little bit so she could figure this out.

“Is Sherlock there? It’s about John.”

“He's here but now is…not a good time, I’m afraid, Ms. Hooper. Sherlock is not quite up for a chat about preparations of the body or anything of that vein.”

“No! No. Mr. Holmes, I think I have some good new! There may not need to be a funeral. The body…John…he’s coming around, I think.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Molly risked a glance at John. Still breathing. It was unnerving.

“I’m trying to follow you, here, Ms. Hooper, but I’m not sure I do. When you say coming around, you mean…”

“I mean getting better. Waking up. I don’t know how to describe it, Mr. Holmes. One minute I’m reading a book to him and in the time it takes me to make a cuppa, he’s just...stopped...being dead. I hope he doesn’t teach the others or I’ll be out of a job!”

Her nervous giggle was not shared by the elder Holmes. There was another long beat of silence and Molly found her anxiety getting the better of her. 

“Please, Mr. Holmes. I don’t have a lot of facts, but he’s breathing. And has shown movement from the neck up. I don’t know what to do. This has never happened before. It’s not zombies, is it?”

A whole new wave of terror seized Molly. She hadn’t even thought of that until she said it. Her fears were quickly stomped out by the derisive snort on the other end of the phone which reminded her exactly who‘s brother she was talking to. 

“Hardly.” he said briskly, clearly snapping into movement on the other end of the phone. “Call a doctor. We’re on our way.”

***

Sherlock Holmes sat in a plastic chair watching the heart monitor in the private hospital room of Dr. John Watson. His eyes had a hard, hungry look in them as they followed the path of the blips, as if he were waiting for them to stop. But they never did. The beeping continued on - consistent - over and over.

It was the most beautiful sound in the entire world. Sherlock wished he could play something that exquisite on his violin. A whole symphony that just kept repeating over and over “John is alive…John is alive…John is alive…”

John still hadn’t regained consciousness, but he was breathing on his own and his pulse was strong. Sherlock knew; he had spent the first three hours with his fingers on John’s wrist to make sure. Doctor’s were baffled but optimistic. The words “full recovery” had been thrown around in hushed whispers.

Sherlock had no doubt. John would recover, absolutely. Because Sherlock had lived through half a day where John Watson was dead, and there was simply no way that he would go back to that world. It was not an option. That world had been too quiet and too grey. It had been dull - but not the sort of dull that sent Sherlock shooting bullets into a wall. This was a whole new dull, one that zapped all of the energy and life and thought out of Sherlock Holmes. And it was not acceptable.

Already Sherlock could feel his brain returning to full power. Rebooting after the total system breakdown he had experienced. Tomorrow he would scour the flat for clues, take a sample of John’s blood to test when the doctor’s weren’t looking, check some contacts from the homeless network to see if people had heard of anything like this. 

A poison that made the victim appear for all intents and purposes dead. The very idea of it made Sherlock’s mind start ticking and traveling down roads of implications and motives.

But Sherlock let that go for now. Tonight, he was happy to just sit and watch the monitor, wrap himself up in the consistent beeping reminder that this was no longer a John-Watsonless world.

A long tone let Sherlock know he had a text message. With a frown, he tore his eyes away from the monitor to check.

**Moriarty taketh away and Moriarty giveth. I was just going to kill your pet, but then I thought this would be more fun. What can I say? I’m soo changeable.**

Sherlock stared at the message for a very long time. Until his hands stopped trembling and his jaw had unclenched itself. Visions of revenge danced in his mind and he entertained each one slowly.

“Tomorrow,” he muttered to the phone before he finally put it away.

Carefully, Sherlock eased himself along the side of the bed, not wanting to disturb John but needing to feel the warmth of him. The monitor sang its beautiful song and John’s breath was soft and even. It was almost enough. Sherlock allowed himself to be lulled towards sleep by it, ready for this day to be over and deleted.

“Open your eyes tomorrow, hm?” Sherlock muttered sleepily into John’s hair.

And the best part was that Sherlock knew he would.


	2. What Have I Lost by Death?

John fidgeted the whole cab ride home, clearly eager to leave the hospital behind. He had been an agreeable enough patient - too kind if you asked Sherlock, though John pointedly never did. He smiled kindly at the nurses who came in time and again: for more blood draws, to run more tests, to ask more questions to verify his cognitive abilities. Apparently, being dosed with a shiny new poison led to a bit of a celebrity status at the hospital. Every doctor wanted his or her own data with which they could form their own theory. John had insisted it was flattering but Sherlock could see the relief in the man’s eyes when he had been wheeled out of the ward doors and settled into a black cab.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was drawn into himself across the seat of the taxi. He sat very still and watched as John absentmindedly tugged at his clothing and readjusted himself in the seat. John moving was good. He liked very much when John did that because it made it more difficult for Sherlock to recall how still and silent John had been before. Sherlock had never known that some things were too horrible to delete, but that particular memory, the first sight of the corpse from the doorway, was proving impossible to scrub from his mind.

The car stopped outside of 221b and they trudged out into the rain. This was a bit of a homecoming for Sherlock as well. He had slept in the hospital for the three nights John had been kept there, stopping at Baker St. only to grab clothes and a quick shower. 

The days were spent running around London, picking up Moriarty’s trail. He was getting closer now, although taking a day off like this would set him back some. It was worth it, though, to settle John in, of course it was. 

Still, more delays loomed in the future, and the thought of having to use patience set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. He would have to work a bit more stealthily with his flat mate back. John Watson was not going to be involved in this case anymore. He was to be kept far, far away from Moriarty (not that John knew that yet) and it was better to avoid the subject for the time being and hold the inevitable fight off until John had recovered a bit more. 

And later on, when Moriarty was caught, he would be sent off to a prison in the furthest time zone so that John Watson wouldn’t even be in the same calendar day as him.  
Unless Sherlock just killed him on the spot.  
It had yet to be determined.

Climbing the well-worn seventeen steps, Sherlock let John do the honors of opening the door to their flat and stepping inside. The doctor gave a pleased little sigh as he set his bag down and shrugged off his coat. His sigh deepened when he turned and saw that the couch had been swung around and shoved roughly against the wall, leaning on its front with a vicious tear across the back fabric. 

“Poor Mrs. Hudson. The sofa did come with the flat, didn’t it?”

“Hmmm,” was the only reply. Sherlock felt no pity for the hateful thing and made sure to send it a quick glare.

John walked towards it, probably to see how badly damaged it was, but Sherlock caught his arm.

“A new sofa is being delivered tomorrow. I’ve taken care of it. Now, off to bed.”

“I’ve told you a dozen times, Sherlock, I feel fine! No pain, no dizziness, no fatigue. In fact, I don’t think I’ve had this much sleep since I’ve moved in here. I don’t need to rest, so -”

“Good.” Sherlock cut him off, grabbing the front of his jumper to pull him closer and leaning in so that their lips were ghosting each other. “Because I have no intention of letting you sleep just yet.”

The look that opened up on John’s face was so lovely and _alive_. Sherlock let him guide them both up the stairs towards their bedroom, his focus better put to use removing as many of John’s clothes as possible during the trip. Their kisses were long and teasing as they stumbled towards the bed. 

Sherlock’s mind ticked observations, trying to record all of the infinite aspects of John. His breath wanting and wet against Sherlock’s neck. Each tiny movement, every single flex or shift of muscle. The noises that dropped from his mouth as Sherlock slid a long digit in. And then, finally, when Sherlock drove home, the warmth that surrounded him. Everywhere was warm and moving and vibrantly, gloriously living.

Afterwards, they lie slumped and spent, arms thrown around each other. John must really have been well rested because he began fidgeting again after only a few moments, getting up to grab a washcloth and clean them off. Sherlock was still pleasantly sated and couldn’t be bothered to move when John returned to bed. He felt the other man lean over him, putting the lube back in the nightstand drawer.

“Hey, Sherlock, what’s all this?”

John’s voice was all surprised amusement. Begrudgingly, Sherlock opened an eye to see what he was talking about.

Several photos, all of John, were spread out on top of the nightstand. There was a photo of him in full military dress, a few more recent shots - one with Sherlock, and a truly embarrassing photo from a formal his senior year. John was staring at them curiously, as though he’d never seen them before.

“Ah, yes, those. Mycroft was…helping me to choose one.”

“But how did he…no, never mind. I have no interest in knowing how your brother managed to dig up my uni graduation photo. And what would you have done with it?”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. “Well, it was really just to distract me. I wasn’t…responding well at the time. But I suppose the idea was to have some blown up for the memorial. Send one out to the newspapers. You know, it would have been printed up. With your announcement.”

“My…“

“Your obituary. Yes.”

John let out a low whistle as he settled back into bed.

“You know, sometimes I forget that I was dead.”

Sherlock shifted closer, ducking his head so that it rested just under the crook of John’s chin.

“I don’t.” he answered softly, nuzzling at the juncture between John's neck and shoulder.

_\- his neck, stiff and cold, no pulse pressing against his fingers, no -_

“I don’t.” Sherlock repeated, lacing their fingers together.

_\- the hand so still hanging off of the couch, fingers that should be responding just laying on his palm, a dead weight, a dead -_

“I definitely do not.” Sherlock growled as he pulled himself more fully on top of John‘s body, covering and claiming.

_\- the body that had been dead and waiting for Sherlock to find, that had been shipped off to the morgue and scheduled for an autopsy, that had been hours away from being cut up, dissected, buried, decomposed, rotting -_

John cupped Sherlock’s face gently, stopping the increasingly frantic kisses that the detective had been placing on his neck. Sherlock's head was forced up and he found his gaze being held by deep, sorrowful blue eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sherlock.”

“Why on earth would you apologize? None of this was your fault.“ He tried to duck his head back into John’s neck, but the other man held firm.

“You shouldn’t have had to see me like that. I’m so very sorry that happened.”

John seemed to be waiting for something - a signal - so Sherlock nodded once to show he understood. With a smile, John released his hold on Sherlock’s chin and leaned up for a soft kiss but Sherlock evaded him.

“Never again. You can’t die. Ever.”

John laughed and hugged him closer.

“Yes, well, I’ll see what I can do. In the mean time…”

Sherlock was suddenly flipped onto his back and John hovered above him, a dangerous smirk playing on his face.

“Let’s pack a bit more living into my life, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they had lots of life affirming sex until the end of time Amen

**Author's Note:**

> Since I can't get over any writers block ever, and since I've been feeling mushy about BBC Sherlock premiering 10 years ago, I thought I would revisit, edit, and post on A03 the only Sherlock fic I've had the courage to release into the world....indulge me...  
> Epilogue to come out most likely tomorrow. Just working on editing that puppy up today.  
> Johnlock 4 evah, bb!!  
> Come say hi on Tumblr @ redacted_rills and show me what to do on that freaking website because it intimidates me.


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